


Primal Desire

by ZionAngel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, beast!Rumpel, beast!mode, dub-con, smutty smutty Rumbelle smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZionAngel/pseuds/ZionAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin inadvertently spills a half-finished potion on himself.  Beast!Mode ensues.</p><p>(Stolen from Bad-Faery.  As with all beast!mode, this is a little dub-con, though neither is doing it on purpose.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Primal Desire

Belle climbs the curved staircase up into the tower, carrying a basket of carefully picked and sorted herbs.  She peeks into Rumpelstiltskin’s work room before she enters, observing for a moment.  He has his back turned to the stairwell, leaning over a table as he carefully prepares a potion.  He wear a deep blue shirt and burgundy vest, but not his usual dreadful dragonhide overcoat.  He doesn’t wear the coat around the castle anymore, unless he has recently returned home, unlike her first few days here, when she never saw him without it.  Once, when she mentioned it in passing, he said such a thing was too cumbersome to wear to the breakfast table or while spinning.  Belle had smirked behind his back when he said that, but said nothing, and silently felt glad that he no longer felt the need to put on such dramatic and intimidating airs around her.

“I have those herbs you wanted,” she announces as she climbs the last few steps into his work room.  She goes over to him, and peeks around him to look at the various vials and dishes and ingredients laid out before him.

He glances up, looking first to her and then to the basket he carries.  “Ah, yes.  Sort them into the containers on the shelf, if you would,” he says absently, waving a hand in the direction of the large cabinet, full of every type of herb imaginable.  Including, as she finds, rather substantial amounts of the herbs he asked her to collect, insisting that he needed them right away.

She says nothing, and moves to the cabinet, occasionally glancing at him over her shoulder.  She has noticed that he does this quite a lot – asks her for something, be it herbs or straw or a particular book that he keeps in the library instead of the workroom, and says he simply _must_ have it right away.  But then, when she arrives with the item, casually tells her to put it off to the side, that he’ll take it when he has need of it.  More than once, she’s found the item she brought sitting where she left it days later, completely untouched.

The habit confused and even frustrated her at first, but as it happened more and more, she noticed that after she brought the item, he would ask her something – how her daily chores were progressing, ask her to help with something else, or tell her what he was doing, or indulge her thousand little questions about whatever bit of magic he was conjuring.  Eventually it dawned on her that he must be terribly lonely, and she felt very foolish for not realizing it sooner.  He is so used to being alone at all times, and for all that he claims to enjoy his solitude, she knows that deep down, he must feel very alone, and crave the company of another.  He enjoys having her around, she thinks, but is simply so out of practice interacting with others that he doesn’t know how to simply ask for her company, or else doesn’t want to make himself seem vulnerable by admitting he would prefer to have her around.  She feels sad for him, knowing how lonely he must be, knowing that was probably his true reason for wanting her as his caretaker in the first place.  He hides beneath layers of twittering mockery and intimidation, but more and more, she’s starting to see that deep down he is just a man like any other, with a very lonely heart.

Perhaps she should simply start coming into his workroom after her morning chores are done, without waiting for him to call on her, and save herself the trouble of a pointless task.  It might do him good to know she doesn’t mind offering her company.  She has taken a liking to him, this strange and much-feared sorcerer, and thinks of him more as a friend than anything else, now.  If she can make him feel a little less lonely and bring him out of his shell, then she’s happy to do so.

Herbs tucked safely in their jars, she makes her way over to the table, leaning against it beside him and watching him work.  “What are you making today?”

He glances at her, and she could swear she sees a hint of a smirk.  “I suppose you might call it a truth potion.”

“’Might’?” she asks, and she moves to his other side, where he has a spell book open on the table.

“Oh, it has a number of interesting effects, but this particular client wishes to use it to discover a truth that another is keeping hidden.”

Belle raises an eyebrow at him, and glances over the page, full of precise and detailed instructions.  “But couldn’t you simply use magic to find out whatever the secret is and tell them?  It seems much less complicated than all this.”

“Yes indeed,” he murmurs, adding a single drop of liquid to the delicate glass vial in his hand.  “But in this case, we are not simply interested in the literal and actual truth of a thing.  We want to know how the person _perceives_ that truth, and what they intend to do about it.”

Belle ponders that, turning her attention to the description at the top of the page, carefully written in precise, hand-written script.

_This potion strips away inhibition and pretense, and reverts an individual to their most truthful and authentic self, a state in which lies, half-truths, omissions, or any other form of misdirection are impossible.  This potion will cause the individual to reveal the truth as they genuinely perceive it.  This potion will also cause a person to behave solely according to their desires, without regard to the perception, opinion, or judgment of others for their actions.  It may be advisable to isolate the individual in a safe location until the effects of the potion wear off, to avoid undesirable after-effects of the individual’s words and actions._

Belle hums curiously, and leans in closer beside him to watch as he adds the final ingredient.  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him glance at her, warily almost, and his hand trembles just a bit as he swirls the glass vial to mix the potion.  She says nothing, and carries on like she doesn’t notice it.  He gets nervous when she gets a little too close, she can tell, and for weeks now, she has been trying to find a happy medium between keeping her distance and making him uncomfortable.  It won’t do to have him so awkward around other people that he has no idea how to behave – she’s sure she can get him used to it soon enough.

The liquid in the vial begins to glow with a faint yellow light.  Fascinated, she leans in close to watch the magic coalesce, barely noticing when her shoulder presses against his and her face is mere inches from his.  It only just registers when he turns to her, his eyes wide with surprise, and she smiles up at him sheepishly.

The loud crack as the vial shatters in his grip startles her out of her fascinated daze, and she jumps back as the potion splashes over Rumpelstiltskin’s hand and chest.  She gasps as he lets out a litany of harsh curses, quickly wiping his hand against his vest.

“Oh, Gods, I’m so sorry!” she says, quickly fetching a rag from another table.  She can’t figure out what happened, how his usually precise hands managed to squeeze the vial tight enough to break, but that hardly matters – the way he’s swearing and hastily trying to wipe the potion from his skin tells her this is a serious problem.  She reaches for him with the rag to try and help, but he backs away.

“No!  Don’t get any of it on you, Belle.”  He snatches the rag from her and wipes at his hands, but she can see the glow of magic clinging to his skin.

Worried, she drags the spell book away from the mess on the table, and quickly reads over the many precise instructions and notes about the potion.  Her heart stutters to a stop as she reaches a paragraph at the very end of the page.

_It is of utmost importance to allow this potion to sit for a minimum of three full days before final bottling and use.  Use of an unfinished potion will cause the individual to revert to their most basal, primal self, more so than with a correctly prepared potion, and may result in potentially detrimental or even dangerous behavior.  The individual will become completely unreasonable, unwilling or unable to listen to the requests or instructions of others, and will not hesitate to act on any whim, regardless of the consequences.  Specific effects will vary based on the individual, but the results may be very dangerous. Again, the importance of allowing this potion to process cannot be overstated._

Her stomach twisting with terror, she looks over to him as he fumbles with the fastenings of his vest, removing the potion-soaked garment.  “Rum, what do we do?  How can I help?”

“It’s fine – nothing, it’s fine,” he tries to assure her, though he is not the least bit convincing as he tries to rinse his hand in a basin of water.

She returns her attention to the page, scanning carefully in search of any information about how quickly the effects might begin how long it might last, if there is any sort of antidote or way to ease the effects, only to find precious little useful information.

Harsh breathing catches her attention, and she turns to find him staring around the room, his eyes wide.  She swallows down the lump in her throat.  “Rum?”  Her voice startles him, like he forgot she was there.  It’s starting already.

There’s fear in his eyes, deep and pervasive, and his whole body is tense, like he expects an attack at any moment.  Wind rattles the open windows, and as he startles and rushes to close them, Belle forces herself to breathe and _think_.  It will do neither of them any good if she loses her senses as well.

Fear seems to be his main problem at the moment – fear of what, she isn’t sure – but perhaps if she can calm him down, keep him someplace quiet, she can manage this until it passes.  Moving slowly so that she doesn’t startle him – or worse, have him see her as a threat – she follows him toward the window.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she murmurs softly.  He looks at her over his shoulder, his eyes wide and feral, his whole body shaking.  She holds out a hand, hoping the gesture comes across as harmless.  “It’s me.  Belle.  You know me, don’t you?”  She smiles as gently as she can.

He stumbles away from the window, towards her, and behind the fear there is something desperate in his eyes.  “ _Belle_ ,” he whispers.

“Yes, it’s me.”  She holds out both hands, beckoning him toward her.  She just gets her hands on his shoulders when it happens.

The raven that flies past the tower is not particularly close, its caw not very loud through the closed windows, and yet he reacts as though it were the shrill wail of a demon just behind him.  He grabs her by the arms, too tight, his nails digging into her skin, and in an instant the world falls out from under her and she is plunged into darkness.  She stumbles as her feet find the ground again, her head spinning, and she feels her arms wrench from his hands as she falls to the ground.  She lands on a hard floor, and as she fights to keep from being sick, she registers the feel of straw beneath her hands and the smell of wool.  The store room, she realizes after a moment, where he keeps raw supplies for his spinning, and endless spools of gold thread.  The room is buried in the dungeons, deep beneath the castle, with no windows.  It is by far the most isolated and cut off place in the whole castle.

As the dizziness fades, her eyes adjust to the faint light of the glowing orbs of magic that always light the room, and she finds him locking the door tight.  Then he turns to her, and makes a whimpering noise when he sees her on the floor.  He kneels beside her and helps her sit up, urging her to lean back against a soft pile of wool.  The look in his eyes has not faded.

This is not simply fear.  This is absolute, utter _terror_ , a fear of everything, every bit of the world around him, a soul-deep conviction that mortal danger lies at every turn.  She is quite certain if he saw a butterfly, he would immediately blow it up with magic to eliminate the danger.  He is utterly and completely terrified of everything in all the world.  Everything, it seems, except Belle herself.

“Rum, it’s all right,” she says, reaching for his arm.

“Belle,” he whispers.  “Mine.  Keep you safe.”  The words are a harsh sound, broken, like it takes all his concentration to find the words and speak them.

“Yes,” she says, focusing.  “Safe.  We’re safe here, Rum.  We’re safe.”

He stares at her, his eyes desperate and frightened and wholly unbelieving.  “Keep you safe.” 

He stands and starts pacing the room, like he’s looking for something else to do, some other way to eliminate danger and protect them.  But they are in a dungeon far below the castle, and there is nothing more he can do, and that only makes him more agitated.

The book said the effects of the potion would last twelve hours, give or take.  Then again, that was for a correctly prepared potion, not an unfinished one.  There is no telling how long he might be like this.  However long it is, she cannot let him continue to pace like this and make himself more nervous.  “Rumpelstiltskin, why don’t you come sit with me.  Please?”  He turns to her, examines her carefully, but instead of joining her, he looks around through the piles of straw and wool and gold, as if he might find something in them that might protect them further.

Carefully, making sure she has a solid footing, she stands, and moves close to him.  She puts her hands on his shoulders, trying to halt his nervous fluttering.  “Rum, please, look at me.”  The touch slows him a little, but she doesn’t have his attention.  She moves her hands to the side of his face, stroking his hair and letting them slide down, until her hands are resting over the surprisingly warm skin of his jaw and neck.  Suddenly he stops, his wide eyes boring into hers, and he grabs her arms, holding her in place.  His breathing is shallow and rapid, somehow different than before.  Testing a thought, she rubs her thumbs over his jawline, and he whimpers at the touch, pulling her closer.

He likes the touch, she realizes, likes the feel of skin on skin.  When was the last time he felt such a thing?  When was the last time anyone held him, hugged him, touched him affectionately?  It’s a terrible thought, knowing that he must have gone without human contact for decades, centuries even.   In any case, the touch has captured his attention, and he isn’t pacing the room nervously anymore.  She rubs her hands up and down over his neck, letting her fingers play with the fine hair at the back of his skull.  He lets out a faint whimper, and she smiles.  “There, that’s it.  That’s good, isn’t it?  You’re all right.”

One hand trails down until her palm is resting over his chest where it is exposed by his shirt.  A small part of her thinks just how warm his skin is, how pleasant it feels to the touch.  She always imagined his skin would feel rough and scaly, but now she finds it to be smooth and slightly textured.  It reminds her a bit of a river rock that has been left out in the sun.

His entire focus has shifted to her, his eyes boring into hers, as she rubs his neck and chest in little circles, murmuring soothing nonsense.  He moves them closer – stepping forward and pulling her in – until their bodies are pressed flush against one another.  Belle’s heart races as he curls into her, hands still gripping her arms, until he buries his face in the crook of her neck.  She gasps in surprise, but just shifts so that she can hold him better, arms wrapped around his shoulders and fingers slipping under the neck of his shirt to rub his back.

She tries to wrap her head around everything.  _This_ , this terrified, desperate man, is the true Rumpelstiltskin, the man hiding beneath layers upon layers of magic and arrogance and intimidation, and the realization is shocking.  He’s afraid of _everything_.  _This_ is his most primal state.  She never would have guessed that the Dark one, the most feared being in all the lands, would be so afraid, but now that she sees him like this, it seems so painfully obvious that all his posturing and twittering is just a façade, meant to cover up the fact that he’s terrified of the world.  He makes sure that everyone else is afraid of him first, so they won’t guess that he’s vastly more afraid of them.

And yet, he’s clinging to her like a frightened child.  He has long since given up his posturing around her.  He doesn’t seem to be afraid of her.  She doesn’t have a chance to ponder what that might mean before lips close over her neck, and a hot tongue rasps over her pulse point.  She gasps at the sensation and freezes, her hands going still on his back.  He wraps himself around, his arms circling her waist and back, as he nibbles more fervently at her neck.  Within moments she all but melts in his arms, his lips and tong and teeth somehow finding a wonderful little spot on her throat, sending a rush of heat through her body and driving away most coherent thought.  She moans, involuntarily tilting her head to give him better access to her neck.  “Rum, what…?”

He whimpers softly and scrapes his teeth against her skin.  It should feel strange and even frightening, but instead the sensation just sends another wave of heat and pleasure down her spine and straight between her legs.  Before she realizes it, she is being shuffled toward the corner, and pushed down into a large pile of soft, warm wool.  Rumpelstiltskin lands on top of her, his lips never leaving her neck, his arms still tight around her.  She feels something hard and warm pressing against her thigh, and suddenly her mind puts all the pieces together, and she bites her lip to hold back a moan.

Belle is well-read, and for all that servants might try to hide such things, there is little they can keep from a curious and determined princess.  She knows full well what happens between a man and a woman.  She knows her own body and its desires, even if she decided not to take Gaston into her bed, nor any of the few boys she took a liking to as a young woman.  She knows where this is going.  And although she is uncertain, not quite sure how far she is willing to take this, she is not upset about where this is going.  She is not frightened by the fact that Rumpelstiltskin is hard against her hip, grinding against her almost imperceptibly, lavishing her neck with pleasure.  There is no one who will reprimand or look down upon her if she does this.  He clearly wants this, _needs_ it to calm down and feel safe, and she wants to help him pull through this.  She doesn’t stop to think what it could mean, that he is doing this in his most primal and honest state.  And, she realizes with no small amount of shock, she wants this for _herself_.  She’s not sure exactly how _far_ she wants this to go, but she quickly decides to simply see where things take them, and try to direct things however seems best.  She trusts him.

Steeling herself, and trying to calm the butterflies fluttering inside her, she reaches down his back to pull his shirt free of his leather trousers.  She rubs her hands up the long muscles of his back, pressing her fingertips firmly into the skin, and he arches into the touch like a cat.  His lips break away from her neck, letting out a pleading little moan and washing hot breath over her skin.  She grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it up.  He whimpers as she tries to push him off of her just enough to pull it over her head, but when she wraps a leg around his hip, it distracts him just long enough to pull he garment off.

She holds on tight, rubbing her hands and arms over his bared skin.  He grinds his hips against her at the feeling, rubbing his hard length against her thigh and moaning as he returns to kissing her neck, letting his lips trail lower over her chest and the tops of her breasts.  He grabs blindly at her skirt, pushing it up to reveal the skin of her legs.  He touches her artlessly, reaching for whatever warm skin he can find.  One hand leaves her legs to tug at the lacing of her bodice, whining helplessly when he can’t seem to do anything with it.

She pushes him off of her and sits up, ignoring his desperate keening and the way he tries to wrap around her and keep her close, and quickly undoes the lacing on her bodice.  She tamps down a flash of shyness as she pulls it off, then her shirt, leaving her completely bare from the waist up.  Immediately he clings to her, holding her tight and pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to her shoulders and back.  Getting her skirt and underthings off like this is tricky, but she manages.  Removing his boots and trousers is an even greater challenge.  But eventually, she gets them both completely nude, and finally lies back and pulls him on top of her.

He gasps at the sensation of her full body pressed against his, and his ragged, desperate breathing is loud in the tiny room.  She wraps her arms and legs around him, cradling him between her thighs and touching every bit of him she can reach.  He returns the favor, his hands roaming over her sides and back and arms and hips.  He rubs against her like a cat, trying to feel every bit of her at once.  His mouth is everywhere, kissing and biting and licking her neck and chest and breasts.  It feels utterly _wonderful_ , his skin hot and delightfully textured against hers, and she finds she enjoys the feel of skin on skin nearly as much as he does.

She kisses him wherever she can, her lips pressing against his cheek and neck and hair.  He has slid down her body a ways, and she can’t feel his erection against her.  She coaxes him up a bit higher, and maneuvers a hand down between them.  She’s reaching blindly, but quickly finds what she’s looking for, and she cups his length in her palm, marveling at the feel of him.

He moves like lightning, and before she realizes it, he has both her wrists pinned down on either side of her head.  He hovers above her, his eyes wide and shining in the faint light, and for long seconds he just stares at her, like she’s some unknown bit of magic that he’s trying to figure out.  Like he’s trying to understand what she _is_.

“Rum?” she asks breathlessly, hoping he hasn’t decided to stop.  She’ll do whatever he wants, give him what he needs to soothe him and help him through this.  But a selfish little part of her prays he’ll keep going.

“Mine,” he finally says, his voice full of determination and hope.

“Yes,” she says, nodding.  “Yours.”  She doesn’t mind the thought, and she knows that later she’ll have to ask herself why that is and what it means.  But right now, he leans down and starts kissing his way down her neck.  He trails kisses across her chest and each breast, his hands moving down her arms and sides as he moves further and further, dipping his tongue into her navel.  In this state, she quite expected him to take her, hard and fast, like an animal claiming its mate and desperately seeking a release.  Instead, he pushes her legs open and settles between them.

She gasps when she feels his hot breath against her, and it takes a great deal of willpower not to clamp her legs shut out of pure surprise.  This act came up once or twice in her books, and she vaguely recalls hearing a few of the maids speak of it in whispered conversations, but she always thought of it as a rare thing.  But Rumpelstiltskin seems so intent on his task, murmuring eager, happy nonsense as he breathes her in and rubs his cheek against her thigh.  Swallowing hard, she spreads her legs a little further.

She yelps when his tongue finally drags through her folds, the sensation so intense she can’t quite tell if it is good or bad.  He does it again, the touch slower and firmer, and this time she lets out a whimper as her hands bunch in the wool beneath her.  She hears him moan happily as he laps at her, and without warning, a sensation like pure energy floods through her core.  She cries out, the sensation too intense, but within moments it eases down into something tolerable, and in a few moments more, then it turns from sheer energy to heat and pleasure.

Magic, she realizes somewhere in her dizzy haze.  He’s using magic to bring her more pleasure.  She threads her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer and urging him on.  He laps at her rhythmically, trying to pulse the magic in time with his licks.  In the state he’s in, he doesn’t manage it perfectly, but he does well enough,  and in a few short minutes, he has her teetering on the edge of a climax.  She whimpers and tugs at his hair, silently pleading for him to send her over.  With a growly that vibrates into her body, he thrusts two fingers into her, and she cries out as the added sensation pushes her over the edge.

Her climax washes over her like a tidal wave, drowning out anything else in the world, and for a few moments after, she almost forgets where they are and why this is happening.  By the time she remembers, he is lapping at her again, his fingers curling inside her as he pulses magic through her.  She should be touching him, she thinks guiltily, should be offering him pleasure in return and giving him the comfort and touch he so desperately needs.  But everything is happening all at once, the sensations so overwhelming and new that they destroy any possibility of coherent thought, and all she can do is cling to him, card her fingers through his hair and let him do as he wishes.  Although, if the moans and whimpers he is making as he strokes his tongue through her folds are any indication, he is finding a great deal of pleasure in this as well.

He drives her on relentlessly with his tongue and lips and fingers and magic, driving her to one orgasm after another.  He barely gives her a chance to catch her breath or let her body recover in between, and soon the pleasure becomes overwhelming.  Her cries echo through the room, and soon she hears herself begging him to slow down, her body torn between wanting him to stop and desperation for her next release.  Her whole body is on fire, her entire universe shrinking to his mouth between her legs.  She feels dizzy as she tugs at his hair, begging him to stop even as her body races toward another climax.

“Please, Rum, stop,” she begs, not sure if she’s whispering or screaming.  “Please!”  He drags her over the edge with a broken cry, and _finally_ the sensations fade.  As she comes back to herself and manages to think again, she feels him kissing her thighs and hips, his hands running over her skin.  Gradually he moves up her body, his lips retracing their earlier path with much greater fervor.  He moans and murmurs incoherent sounds of pleasure against her skin, nipping at her ribs.  He stops when he reaches her breasts, lavishing every inch of them with licks and kisses and gentle pinches between his fingers.

As she runs her fingers through his hair again and again, carefully scratching the way he likes, he straddles her leg and starts thrusting against her thigh.  He doesn’t even seem aware that he’s doing it.  She hasn’t even gotten to see his body yet, she realizes.

She has read enough to know that he needs to come, too, every bit as much as he did.  But instead of taking her and finding his release, he is barely paying his own needs any mind at all.  She lifts her leg beneath him, trying to show him that he can do more, that she wants him to come, even though he doesn’t seem to have any intention of taking her, but save for a soft grunt he doesn’t seem to notice.  So she tugs him further up her body, one hand at the back of his neck, and one at his shoulder, until he is kissing and nipping at her neck instead.  She tries to reach a hand between them without disturbing him, but he is pressed against her like a second skin.  She has to push him away, just a bit, to fit her hand between them, and the moment she does he clings to her with a desperate whimper, sinking his teeth into her neck.  She gasps at the oddly thrilling sensation, but she forces herself to concentrate on her task, wrapping the hand at his neck a little tighter.

“It’s all right, Rum,” she murmurs against his ear.  “It’s all right.  I’m not going anywhere.”  She cups him in her hand, savoring the feel of him, hot and hard against her palm.  “There,” she whispers, rubbing him with slow, firm strokes.  “Isn’t that better?”

He whimpers, grinding against her hand as he sinks his teeth into her shoulder.  She smiles and wraps her hand around him.  It takes a few moments to find a rhythm that will work at this angle, but soon she is working his shaft with quick, strokes, letting them grow rougher as he grunts appreciatively.

He rises up on his elbows and knees until he is kneeling above her, staring down into her eyes.  He _craves_ her touch, she can tell, but something in his look is different than it was when this first started.  No, not different – more intense.  Deeper.  As if he is staring at her from the deepest, most guarded depths of his soul.  Like he craves so much more than her touch, like he craves _her_ more than anything else in all the world.

She moves her hand faster against him, squeezing a little tighter, her own breathing growing ragged along with his.  He cups her face in his hand, stroking her cheek tenderly, and there is so much genuine raw _desire_ in his eyes that it shocks her.  There is something more there, something beyond a desire for physical pleasure and a sense of safety.  Like he would want this just as much without the effects of the potion affecting his mind.

When he comes, his eyes never leave hers, and he is completely bare and vulnerable and open to her, and that feels more raw and intimate and personal than anything else he did, even more intimate than if he had taken her and come inside her.

He collapses on top of her when it’s over, breathing like he’s dying.  For a long time, she just holds him, slowly massaging her hands over his back.  Eventually, he shifts his weight off of her, curling up to her side.  He holds her close, his skin pressed flush against hers, holding her like he wants to protect her as much as be protected by her.  “Mine,” he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yes,” she whispers back, her eyes falling shut.

She drifts into a deep sleep before she has a chance to question what any of this means, or where they go from here.


End file.
